𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

PROLOGUE

"Ow."

"Sorry."

A silent beat.

"Ow."

"Jughead, you need to--"

"Ow!"

Veronica drew back with a sharp sigh, stare flickering ceilingward. "You need. To hold. Still."

Jughead met her gaze with a harassed one of his own. "You need. To back. Off." He lifted a hand to swat away the needle approaching his face and her brows snapped up in that cool, patronizing way of hers--the one that soundlessly carried a Hepburnian drawl of 'Oh, do I?'

After a beat, she offered a simple shrug. "Okay."

He eyed her sceptically in the fluorescent light of the diner. It was never just 'okay' with Veronica Lodge. It was 'okay' and 'but we're also going to do it my way'.

"I guess Betty can stitch you up, then."

And there it was.

His jaw tightened a bit, stare averting a fraction to the window behind her. The inky nightscape of the Pop's parking lot was the same color as her eyes. He glanced at a neon pink sign for milkshakes instead, annoyed.

"I'm sure she'd be a lot better at it than me," she passed on thoughtfully, and he chewed the inside of of his his cheek. "Caring. Concerned. Wanting to know what happened."

He didn't understand how somehow, despite the flimsy, entirely associative nature of their relation to each other--best friend's girlfriend, girlfriend's best friend, occasional ally and equally occasional enemy--she could read him like she could. Like it was easy. Like he was some breezy Capote novella and not the Joycean mindfuck he fancied himself to be. It was aggravating and unsettling in roughly equal measure, but even worse and it made him feel predictable.

He'd always thought of himself as something of a mystery.

Most people let him believe he was.

Veronica made it clear she knew the last thing he wanted to do was explain to his bleeding heart girlfriend that he'd smashed his milkshake into the wall in a sudden fit of rage.

He glanced down at his clumsily bandaged hand, cursing the fact that he couldn't just stitch himself up. He didn't have health insurance, so the clinic was out, Archie was in juvie, so that was out. The Serpents we all on a risky recon mission for Ghoulie intel that he wasn't about to mess up by calling one of them. So really, there was just Veronica--the girl who'd watched it all happen in real time, stock-still, dark eyes bright with shock over the register.

Shock and something else. He hadn't been able to place it in the rush of adrenaline.

"Want to call her?"

"Just finish the stupid stitches," he muttered, gesturing at the expectant hand she hadn't lowered so much as a fraction. She couldn't even pretend to believe he had any say in this situation. After a second, he realized she was peering at him and he blinked under the scrutiny. He'd never really felt comfortable under her stare. "What?"

"Just trying to find the subtext of a 'please and thank you' in that sentence."

His wariness sank into a sigh.

"Some buried imagery, maybe? Metatextual acknowledgment of the fact that it's the middle of the night I just finished a double shift and I don't actually have to do this for you?"

He met her gaze with what was initially insincere indulgence, a prelude to sarcastic 'please'', but for some reason, something about her face made his sourness snag a bit. He took a second to look at her. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Smudged flecks of mascara at the corners. Her cheeks looked hollower than he remembered, the sheen of her irises over-caffeinated rather than curious.